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I don't want to be a baby, but the tears start falling.
Four.
Five.
He grips my arm and yanks me in front of Xavier. “What are you doing here, Rhiannon?”
Through my tears, I answer. “I'm only eight, you can't expect me to make good choices.”
He pulls his leather belt free from the loops… and then whips me.
Over and over.
Until the numbers in my head jumble.
Until I see little stars behind my squeezed eyelids.
Until I cry out I won't do it again.
“Stop,” Xavier yells. “It's not her fault. Punish me.”
“Thisisyour punishment, Xavier,” my father shouts.
Finally, after a few more minutes, the hits cease, but the sting and burn continues so fierce I rub my bottom. I'm sure Xavier really thinks I'm a baby now; I can't stop the shudders waffling my frame or the hiccuping sobs.
My father leans down, an inch from Xavier’s stricken face, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair. “Remember this lesson.”
Xavier doesn't look at me on the entire walk back. My father strides ahead of us across the lawn and when he's out of ear shot, Xavier takes my hand.
“One day, Rhiannon, I will take you away from him.”
I don’t say a word. The look in his eyes tells me he isn’t kidding.
Chapter 2
Rhiannon
12 years old
“She can't play,” Dean, Xavier’s new friend, balks. “She's wearing a dress.”
“So,” I snip back, “I can still throw.”
Xavier blows out a breath, saying I'm sorry with his eyes. “It's baseball, Rhi.”
Dean smiles at me, a big Cheshire grin, knowing I'm going to lose at my attempt to join in their game. Almost every day, after school, I race through my homework and head to the small cottage at the back of the property where Xavier lives with his mom. It's the only real routine, I have. But, every afternoon this week, Dean has been here. Dean with his stormy gray eyes and skater blond hair.
“Come on, Rhiannon, you might get hurt,” Xavier says to me, “and you know what happens when you see your own blood.”
I lower my head. “Yeah, I faint.”
“That’s right. We don’t want you fainting all over the place.” He bops my nose with his finger.
“You could be our cheerleader,” Dean offers.
Ignoring him, I turn away and cross to the patio of their home. Hannah waves to me from behind the kitchen island, and I slide the door open and step inside to the scent of garlic.
“Hi, Rhi,” she greets me, her knife flying through the mushrooms on the counter.
